


farewell, my lovely

by vowelinthug



Series: BLACK SAILS NOIR [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Gay Chicken, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: Flint has his gun drawn and raised before he even finishes turning around. He sees a dark alley, nestled nice and cozy between a closed soda parlor and a closed drugstore. The closest lamp is lit two doors down, but between that and the moon he can see a couple trash cans and shadows. But you don’t get to live as long as James Flint had without being able to tell between a shadow and ashadow.--don't get too excited, it's just the first noir au fic originally posted on tumblr 896669988976 years ago





	farewell, my lovely

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/162695014086/drabble-game-uhh-all-of-them-but-specifically), originally the following prompt by lurkerdelima: _#83, “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”_
> 
> i'm way overdue with posting this
> 
> title from a Raymond Chandler book

* * *

 

Flint lights a cigarette. The metal clink of his lighter flicking shut is the only sound trickling across the Atlantic City Boardwalk. Other than the dull rush of waves, of course. Everything glows a hazy orange in the steam of the summer air. Fuck, it’s hot, even with the breeze pushing off the sea. It’s barely a breeze, really, the waves twitching only as much as an accomplished sinner in church. They’re moving, sure, but they aren’t exactly calling attention to themselves.

He sticks the cigarette in his mouth and takes off his jacket, throwing it over the railing. He smokes with his lips pursed, rolling up his sleeves, never taking his eyes off the horizon. He’d get a good breeze if he was on a boat, even in this fucking July swelter. He lets loose the top button his waistcoat, then takes off his hat to wipe at his brow with his forearm. The only way to get a good goddamn breeze is at sea.

The boat still isn’t in sight.

Flint takes a long drag, the tobacco rolling around his tongue like a dog with a bone. He wishes he could be on his boat right now, instead of waiting to see if his shipment will arrive or if it’s been pinched by the fucking Coast Guard after leaving Nassau. But the _Ranger_ had been having a good run so far, and the crew knew just how to hide his rum behind a grin and a crate of sugar cane – both sweet enough to give the Guards cavities, if they got boarded.

It means smaller cargo, but it means you don’t have to do a runner at the first whiff of trouble. And it also means Flint couldn’t go with them. His face has been splashed all over the papers too many times. But it also means product, and anyway, Flint has The Walrus to run.

The moon wavers on the water like Flint’s patience. They’re hours late. He’d already sent his men home. The only reason the _Ranger_ would be this late is if there’d been a problem. But still, Flint stays. It’s easier to think of all the ways the world has disappointed him when he’s looking out at the sea.

Suddenly, he hears a crash coming from behind. Crash might be too generous. A soft thud, and a roll of glass over gravel, a metal can scratching against brick, and then a pointed stillness of someone trying not to make anymore noise.

Flint has his gun drawn and raised before he even finishes turning around. He sees a dark alley, nestled nice and cozy between a closed soda parlor and a closed drugstore. The closest lamp is lit two doors down, but between that and the moon he can see a couple trash cans and shadows. But you don’t get to live as long as James Flint had without being able to tell between a shadow and a _shadow_.

He inhales deeply one more time before pitching his cigarette over the rail, onto the beach. “Stay right there.” He doesn’t bother to whisper it. “I’m coming to you.”

He approaches slowly, finger resting on the trigger, and when he gets to the edge of the alley, a man steps out, hands raised.

“Hi,” he says, and smiles.

It’s a smile only a mother could love, because everyone else is too busy wanting to punch it. His shirtsleeves are also rolled, and he’d gone so far as to take off his suspenders, draping them at his waist. Flint doesn’t know how his trousers aren’t sliding all the way down over his narrow hips. The man’s in desperate need of a haircut, a shave, and another place to be. He doesn’t look like a street urchin, though. His teeth are too white.

“I have a proposition for you,” says the kid, still smiling.

Flint had already given him the once over, but he did it again, slower this time. Maybe life isn’t all full of disappointments. “Do you now?”

The kid frowns, and when he realizes, his cheek redden a little. “That’s – ah. Not what I meant. Mr. Flint.”

It’s a good thing Flint hadn’t put away his gun. “You know who I am?”

“Yes,” says the kid, stepping forward. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Cops are the only ones looking for me, kid.” Flint raises his gun higher.

The kid raises his hands higher. “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not a cop.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I actually _found_ you.”

“Uh-huh,” says Flint. “And did you mean to proposition me now, or did you just mean to trip over your own pigtails in the dark?”

“I – slipped.” The kid scowls, like Flint doesn’t have a gun on him. “I had been hoping to speak to you in a more….populated area, but. You see – “

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Silver,” says Silver. “John Silver.”

“Is that so?“ says Flint. He steps closer, forcing Silver to walk backwards into that dark alley again. He shuffles a little awkwardly as he goes, trying to keep from tripping again with his eyes still on Flint’s gun. “Named after that tongue of yours, were you?”

Even as he keeps looking at Flint, at Flint’s gun, at the disappearing light around them, Silver doesn’t look worried. Not even with his back up against a wall. “I don’t think you’re well-acquainted with my tongue just yet to know that.”

All Flint can hope for is that the smirk on his face is at least a predatory one. “You said you know who I am.” He keeps walking closer, even though Silver has nowhere to go.

“Of course I do,” Silver says, eager as a rabbit. “I read about you in the papers. The way you took out those two ships last year was real copacetic. Is it true you actually _sunk_ one of th—”

“If you know who I am,” Flint says, waiting until there’s only about a foot of hot air and his itchy trigger finger between them, “then you wouldn’t of sought me out, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Silver says, scowling again. “I served, too.”

Flint snorts. “For how long, kid, a week? You must have still been cleaning your barracks with your toothbrush when the Krauts finally called it quits.”

“Went from France to Belgium,” and the kid no longer looked young at all. He doesn’t look scared or annoying, either. He just looks pissed. It looks better on him. “And I served long enough.” He kicked the wall behind him, and in the silence of the dark he hears the clunk of wood on brick.

Flint doesn't look down at Silver’s false leg, still propped up on the wall behind him. He looks into Silver’s eyes, searching for a look most men either try to hide or don’t even bother. Silver is better at hiding it than most. He says, “And how old did you _tell_ them you were?”

A shadow passes over Silver’s face, even darker than before. “Old enough.”

Flint takes a step back, sighing. He’s not about to kill another soldier again. He lowers his gun, but doesn’t holster it. “Alright, Mr. Silver, you got me. I wouldn’t have pegged that you ever pulled a piece in your life, but I believe you. Though I have no need for any soldiers. Why don’t you go to school, like the other GIs?”

Slowly, Silver’s leg lowers to the ground. He looks a little flustered, like he hadn’t been expecting to reveal so much.

“I don’t need school,” Silver says, and just like that, his easy charm is back. “I need dough. I’m here to help you.”

He reaches into his pocket, and before Flint can raise his gun again, Silver is holding out – a flask.

“Genuine, all-American hooch,” Silver says, grinning. “Some of the purest whiskey this end of the Atlantic. Take a sip, and have all your troubles slide –”

“Enough of the snake oil,” Flint says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not putting that bathtub rotgut in my body, thanks.”

“Just try it!” Silver is stepping forward now, flask held out like a gun of his own. “It’ll knock your socks off.”

“I’m not wearing socks.”

“Then it’ll knock….” Silver trails off, eyes trailing over Flint’s vest, his flannel trousers, his Oxfords, like he’s trying to picture what other garment Flint could stand to lose, “….you off your feet.”

“You’re off your fucking rocker if you think I’m gonna drink some hooch handed to me by a pretty boy punk loitering outside the soda jerk. I don’t feel like going blind today.”

“Well, I’m won’t stand to turn you blind,” says Silver. “Not if you think I'm pretty.”

“Most men take that to be an insult.”

“Most men aren’t as pretty as me.” Silver unscrews the cap to his flask. “I’ll show you it’s perfectly safe. And if it’s not, at least I’ll have one last good sight to see before it all goes dark.”

Flint wants to tell him that it doesn’t _matter_ if Silver will drink it, because he doesn’t know Silver, and doesn’t know if he places any value on his life. From their interactions so far, he wouldn’t count on it. But before he can, the flask is at Silver’s lips, his head tilting back, and all Flint sees is a tanned neck, stretching here to eternity. It’s a neck that’s surely seen a fair amount of bruising over the years, and Flint’s tempted to add his share. He just has to decide what he’ll use to make them, his hands or his lips.

When Silver stops drinking to look back at Flint, a tiny bead of whiskey trails down his chin.

Flint is a man who takes things too far. It might as well be printed on his business cards. So he’s not surprised with himself when he reaches out, wipes the liquid from Silver’s face with his thumb, before bringing it to his own mouth to taste.

He likes to tease men. It makes him seem unpredictable, and it puts them on edge. He figures, if the toughest guys can’t break without giving him what he wants or turning scared, they’ll do fine up against a regular copper. He never means it anyway. Most of the fellas he runs with would not only take a wooden nickel but let him pay their salaries with them.

None of his guys look at him with the same look Silver gives him now. He hands Flint a smile he can feel in his spine.

“And so?” says Silver, holding out his flask again, giving it a little shake. “Fancy a drink?”

Flint takes the flask. He checks back at the pier, but all he sees is dead surf and no ships. What the hell. He has time to kill. Either he’ll die or time will. He takes a sip of Silver’s whiskey.

Two seconds later, he has Silver flat up against the wall again, gun under his chin.

“You know,” Flint says conversationally, “I think I’ve tasted this particular brand of whiskey before.”

“Have you now?” Silver’s throat bobs under the barrel of his gun. “I assure you, I did make it myself.”

Flint hums, flattening himself against the full of Silver. He keeps the gun on him, but raises the flask up against Silver’s lips, forcing him to take another shot. “This tastes an awful lot like Singleton’s brand of hooch, except I know for a fact Singleton’s been out of business for a month, ever since his factory mysteriously went up in smoke and he got fingered for arson. Coppers maintained it was for the insurance, even though Singleton denied it. Supposedly, his recipe went with the fire. ”

Silver swallows everything Flint gives him, then turns his head to gasp. More whiskey drips down his chin, and Flint sways forward like a man leaning towards making a bad decision. The corners of Silver’s mouth are turned up in a smile, even as he catches his breath. “Sounds like that was a bad day for Mr. Singleton,” Silver says, eyes swerving into Flint like a runaway bus. “So how’s your day going?”

“Differently than I had imagined when I had my coffee this morning,” Flint admits, finally holstering his gun. He finishes the flask himself.

He’d wanted to make a move against Singleton for ages. The man had been able to make his own product, without dealing with third and fourth parties to smuggle it into the states. Singleton had been a crappy businessman, though, and Flint hadn’t dealt with him after a pretty serious falling out over some missing cases. But he’d been his own man, and God, how Flint had envied that. Sure, plenty of men had come crawling to his door trying to be his bootlegger, but The Walrus served only quality hooch, and the stuff that crawls isn’t typically quality.

Silver isn’t crawling. He’s slinking. There’s a measurable difference between the two.

“Does that mean you’re interested?” Silver’s teeth are even whiter up close. He’s about as level as a sinking ship, as up as the devil himself, but Flint’s stuck wondering if the taste of liquor is clinging to the square of his teeth.

But because Flint, unlike Singleton, is a good businessman, he says, “That depends.” And if he happens to slide his thigh between Silver’s legs, that’s between him and Silver’s inseam.

Silver says, “Fifty percent.”

Flint says, “I’m not interested.”

Silver pouts. “Forty.”

“Ten.”

“Twenty,” says Silver, and finds space to press himself even closer, hands curling into Flint’s waistcoat, “and a genuine kiss from a genuine gangster.”

Flint leans forward, waits until he can feel the smell of Silver’s swallowed whiskey touching his lips, and says, “Twenty-five.”

“Aw, Hell,” says Silver. “I’m not that greedy.” He kisses him.

Flint hasn’t kissed another man since the war ended. He may as well have not breathed in all that time. Silver’s hands slide up to hold his face, strong enough to build a life on. Flint pulls him off the wall to clutch at his back. He slides his tongue into Silver’s open mouth, as warm and wet and waiting as the air in Atlantic City. He’d been right, before. He can taste moonshine on Silver’s teeth.

When Flint pulls back, he thinks if the man’s brewing skills won’t make him go blind, than the sight of Silver sucking on his own bottom lip, lingering on the taste, just might. He finds himself wishing he could put Silver’s suspenders back over his shoulders, because he needs something to hold onto. Instead, he steps out of Silver’s grasp altogether. He doesn’t know if it’s Silver’s booze or his tongue that’s making the blood move through Flint’s body the exact way the ocean ten feet away isn’t – roaring and curling under the skin. Flint likes to live dangerously, but usually that means the danger is for other people.

Silver doesn’t look upset that Flint moves away. Maybe because he knows he’ll eventually be back, pressed into the sweat of his neck. He asks, “So what do you think?”

“What do I think?” Flint tosses Silver his flask. Silver catches it mid-air, pocketing it with a smile at its emptiness. Flint can’t survive another direct smile, so he busies himself with pulling another cigarette out of his case. “I think you’re dripping ink, kid.”

“How’s that?”

Flint finds comfort in the clink of his lighter, the rough roll of the wheel under his thumb, the _whuff_ of the wick igniting. But before he could even get his lighter out, Silver is there with a match, striking it against the brick of the soda shop. The smell of sulfur tickles his nose, and he is so focused on watching the flame dance in Silver’s eyes that he almost forgets to inhale. He couldn’t properly tell before, in the dark, but now he knows. Silver’s eyes are blue.

He inhales, then exhales. Silver shakes out the match and stands there, washed in Flint’s smoke. Flint says, “I mean you got trouble written all over you.”

“I could say the same for you, daddy,” Silver says, sliding his suspenders on with a snap. “Or maybe you’re dripping with something else. So does that mean we’ve got a deal?”

If Silver is an undercover cop, he’s the worst one Flint’s ever met. Flint holds the cigarette between his lips again so he can pull out a card and a pencil from his back pocket. He braces the card on Silver’s chest so he can write out an address.

“Be here at 9 AM sharp, tomorrow morning,” he says, handing Silver the card. “And bring more of your product with you.”

“How much should I bring?” Silver holds the card in his hands like a promise – a precious, fragile thing that could easily blow away, if the breeze even deemed to pick itself up.

“Enough for you to make good on your promises, Mr. Silver.” Flint adjusts his hat forward, shading his eyes. He reaches for Silver’s suspenders, reeling him in. “You said you’ll knock me off my feet, after all. Far as I can tell, I’m still standing. I’m hoping you might do something about that.”

* * *

 


End file.
